I was always careful not to exude any sign of over-confidence. That was not a pantomime show or a false front, it is how I feel about pursuing anything that others also want. You just cannot take anything for granted. If United happened to be at the top of the table and there were five games left to play, I would never say, ‘If we get three points here nobody stands a chance of catching up.’ Instead I would say, ‘Let’s get this game out of the way. Just get the job done.’ You win by taking one step at a time.
One final exhibition of complacency lodges in my memory and it was the last home game of the 2006–07 season against West Ham. We had already wrapped up the title the previous week, but I had lectured the team before the game that they owed it to everyone to make sure we won. West Ham, for their part, needed to beat us in order to stay in the Premier League. I had left Ronaldo, Giggs and Scholes on the bench because we had the FA Cup final the following week but, right before half-time, Carlos Tévez scored for West Ham. I put our three best players on after half-time but we still lost. The complacency of the United team on that occasion made me furious. I let the players have it full throttle at the end of the game. It was an appalling way to end the season, it was an awful display to our fans of what Manchester United stood for, and it left a terrible taste in my mouth. The players might have thought it was a meaningless game–but I didn’t.
Complacency can often start seeping into an organisation that has had a string of triumphs. More money starts flowing around; travel policies are loosened so that people start booking expensive airline seats or five-star hotels. Then plaques and mementos of victories, or important milestones, begin popping up on desks and office shelves. Some organisations, and United certainly is one of those, even have a museum where their old products–or, in our case, trophies–are on display. At United, as the years passed by, the essentials of life certainly got easier. We started chartering planes to ferry the team around, the comfort of our buses increased immeasurably, and it was all too easy for us to take these luxuries for granted.
Nonetheless it is important for all the people associated with an organisation to feel part of a big success. A few days after we secured any of our trophies, I’d gather all the staff at Carrington together and we would toast our success with a glass of champagne before getting to work. I always felt that the trick was to celebrate our triumphs without for a moment losing the edge and depth of desire that had taken us there. I just wanted to be on my guard that victories weren’t seen as automatic guarantees of future success, and that celebrations did not sow the seeds of complacency.
People who have given everything to achieve the impossible deserve recognition and praise. However, I have never been a big fan of celebrations. While I was at United and participated in many, the commercial side of the club organised all those sort of events. Whenever one of my players won the Ballon d’Or, or the Professional Footballers’ Association Player of the Year award, I would be sure to attend the banquets. But I cannot pretend I enjoyed all the drinking that accompanied them.
I loved celebrating goals, particularly ones like the bicycle kick Wayne Rooney pulled off against Manchester City in 2011. For me the final whistle of a game was always salvation. The final whistle is the greatest moment. It is definitive, and marks the time when you finally achieve something. I only felt in a celebratory mood for a couple of hours after a big victory. It didn’t matter if it was a League Championship or Champions League. Celebrations after victories are exhausting. As a manager, after a game, you need to give the press interviews, return to a hotel, freshen up and attend a reception. By the time the day was done it was one o’clock in the morning and I would be dying to get to bed. I’d usually lie in bed for a bit and feel a sense of satisfaction, but by the time I woke up that was gone.
I recognised that a victory or major event had a different meaning if you are a player, or supporter, or director–you can celebrate as long as you want. It was always very rewarding to see the amount of happiness a team can provide–especially to a community that either does not have much of a share of the limelight or has been down on its luck. The victory in the European Cup Winners’ Cup in 1983 was a great tonic for Aberdeen–a city which, despite the business brought by North Sea oil, is easily forgotten. Aberdeen is closer to Oslo than London, and in winter there can be fewer than six and a half hours of daylight. Even in May, when we had our homecoming parade, there was a freezing wind howling off the North Sea. The city council declared an official holiday, and all the schools closed except one–the Albyn School which, at the time, was an all-girls’ school. However, when we passed the school, all the girls were outside or looking through the windows, cheering the bus.
Even though Manchester is much bigger and better known, the United victories meant a lot to the locals. The whole area had known its share of misery–and I’m not talking about Liverpool’s run in the 1970s and 1980s. I’m referring to the local economy, the decimation of almost every manufacturing business, and the enormous hardships this caused for numerous families. For many of these people, United’s victories were the best thing that happened in their lives. I’m sure that, for some, our open-topped bus processions through Manchester were better than Christmas.
In 1999, after our Treble, it was extraordinary. In Deansgate, the main road through the centre of Manchester, there was a building that was under construction which had ‘DO NOT ENTER’ signs plastered all over it. That didn’t stop anyone. There were people standing on the open concrete floors and steel beams. Everyone was singing the favourite United songs and throwing scarves and hats at the bus. The same thing happened in 2013, after we won our 20th League title, and the team was taken out on to the balcony of the town hall. For several seasons, when we had won the League, I’d have the staff over to the house for a spread and some drinks.
While I took great pleasure and satisfaction in seeing what we had done for others, I cannot say that I felt as happy. I always felt I had to be in the vanguard of tomorrow. I’d immediately start to think about ways in which we could improve, and players who were coming to the end of their best days. For me, the questions going through the back of my mind during any celebration were, ‘How do we top this? How do we get another triumph?’ I never wanted us to be torpedoed by complacency.
6
MEASURING PEOPLE
Job Hunting
Unlike a lot of my fellow managers and, more importantly, unlike a lot of the people I grew up with in Scotland, I’ve never had to contend with the soul-deadening experience of months or years out of work. I can only imagine the devastating effects of being tossed on the ash-heap. Fortunately, I always had a job when I was looking for a fresh challenge, but that did not prepare me for interviews–particularly at the start of my career.
I have done thousands of interviews, but those have been with the press. I’ve only really done a few job interviews in my life–at Queen’s Park in Scotland in 1974, Wolverhampton Wanderers in 1982 and Barcelona in 1983. My interview for the position as manager of Queen’s Park was a disaster. I was completely unprepared. I wasn’t sure who I was going to meet and I certainly hadn’t thought about the questions I would be asked, let alone have a list of topics that I wanted to discuss. So when I arrived, thinking I was just going to see the chairman of the club, I was surprised to find a large interview committee, including men I had played with. There must have been 12 of them in the room. I was nervous. I didn’t know how to handle myself. I was shockingly bad. I spent the whole interview trying to justify myself and my record, rather than just being myself. When I came out of the room I knew I had failed and I felt really disappointed. They gave the job to Dave McParland, who later became an assistant to Jock Stein at Celtic.
Over time I discovered that interviews, or meetings, with the principals of other clubs were very revealing. They gave me glimpses of the tone and tenor of each organisation. My encounter at Wolves was astonishing. I had been led to believe that they had already decided to offer me the job, and the
n I found myself in a hotel, with the whole board, being asked what I would do if I found a player had taken £5,000 from the club’s bank account. I thought to myself, ‘They don’t need a manager, they need an accountant.’ I could not get back to Aberdeen quickly enough.
At about the same time, I met Irving Scholar, then the chairman of Tottenham, who offered me the manager’s job at White Hart Lane. At the time the club had an incumbent manager, Keith Burkinshaw, and there was no way I was ever going to take anybody’s job away from him.
Later in my career, I met with a representative of Massimo Moratti, the long-time owner of Inter Milan. That went out the window the moment he showed me a list of players they were going to buy and sell, which is just as well because I would never have persuaded Cathy to move to Italy.
It’s strange to think, looking back, that the job that came to define me–the manager’s post at United–was offered to me without a formal interview. Few businesses would think of offering a job to someone they haven’t interviewed, or didn’t already know pretty well. But that is not always the way it works in football. When I received a telephone call from United, the club was hovering in the first division relegation zone and flirting with disaster. Previously I only had fleeting contact with the Manchester United board when, in 1984, I had helped them buy Gordon Strachan, the midfielder, from Aberdeen, at a time when the player had already agreed to a transfer to a German club. Apart from that, and the briefest of sideline conversations with Bobby Charlton during the 1986 World Cup in Mexico, I had never spoken to any of them about the job. When I finally met them at my sister-in-law’s house in Bishopbriggs, just outside Glasgow, it was to discuss the financial realities of the position. They had already decided they wanted me in Manchester, and I was so eager for the job that I moved to Old Trafford for less than I was being paid in Aberdeen.
Over the years I have picked up far more experience of being on the other side of the table–of being the interviewer rather than the interviewee. When I interview someone, I want to know how ambitious they are or whether they are just thinking about a job as a stepping-stone to something else. Apart from their qualities and qualifications, I want to measure the level of their commitment. I always look for enthusiasm, for a positive attitude, for eye contact and for personal courage. As United became more successful, I could see that some job candidates were quite nervous when they came to see me. So I tried to put them at their ease by offering them a cup of tea. I just wanted them to relax enough so that I could get the measure of who they really were.
You can pick up the signs of someone’s character in many different ways during an interview–and it’s often the little things that make a difference. For example, someone who sits up properly and is leaning forward a little is showing that they are eager to start. That is way better than appearing cocky or over-confident or not seriously interested in the position. Some people are often afraid to ask questions during interviews. That’s daft. Interviews should not be a one-way street. You need to know what your employer can offer you. I often get a measure of someone by listening to the questions they pose. It shows how they think; offers a sense of their level of experience and degree of maturity.
In my 26 years at United, the most important interviews I ever did were for the role of my assistant. At United I had seven assistant managers–Archie Knox, Brian Kidd, Steve McClaren, Jim Ryan, Carlos Queiroz, Walter Smith and Mick Phelan. After Brian Kidd left in 1998 I got more serious about interviewing, and the process became more meticulous. We looked at several people but narrowed it down to David Moyes and Steve McClaren.
David was about 35 at the time and was managing Preston North End. He was very tense when I interviewed him and that showed in the seriousness of his face. Steve McClaren was the opposite of David. He was bright, breezy and enthusiastic. He had worked at Oxford United and Derby County, where the players liked him, and he was a voracious consumer of books and videos about football and training techniques. At that point Steve had a lot more experience in the top flight of football than David, and that swung my decision.
The most impressive interview I ever did was with Carlos Queiroz. I’d been looking for a foreign coach who could speak several languages, to help us with the foreign-born players. Andy Roxburgh, the former manager of Scotland, referred me to Carlos, who was coaching South Africa at the time. Quinton Fortune, who is South African and played for United, was also complimentary about Carlos. When Carlos came to the interview he just did everything right. I’d never met him before. He was dressed as if he was going to get married and I could see by the way he sat that he wanted the job. He looked at me intensely–I always watch to see whether people can maintain eye contact because it is a good measure of their confidence. Carlos had good ideas and asked good questions. He was experienced and he was eager and I didn’t hesitate in hiring him.
René Meulensteen had a different way of demonstrating his appetite to join United. He had been coaching in Qatar and had been referred to us by Dave Mackay, the great Tottenham Hotspur and Derby County player. In 2001, when he came to seek a job at United, René told us the best way he could advertise his skills was to demonstrate them in action. So we went out on to the training field and he ran a technical session with some younger players and that clinched it for him.
Figuring out whether a coach could do his job was different from taking the measure of a player. The proof of that came when we watched him play. Interviewing a 16-year-old centre-back is not going to tell you very much about his footballing ability, although it will give you some insight into his determination. The only real way to tell whether a player has the toughness and perseverance to flourish for a long time is by the performances he turns in. When you meet new people and try to assess the most vital component–their character–you are only making an educated guess. Sometimes you are right and sometimes you are wrong. The only real test of character comes with the passing of the years and watching them perform–particularly when they are going through a bad spell or recovering from a setback. The ultimate judge of performance is Father Time.
Networking
My 11 grandchildren are the greatest networkers I’ve ever seen. They’re always using Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat or Twitter. I’ve never been a great networker, in either the new-fangled or old-school manner, but I really believe in what–these days–are called networks.
Decisions are simpler when you are dealing with people you know well. It is far easier to gauge their opinions and weigh their judgements than the observations of strangers. Many of my best appointments–both as coaches and players–stemmed from the referrals and assessments of this informal network, which developed over the years. It wasn’t something I consciously sought to assemble. I didn’t consciously try to cultivate or ingratiate myself with people because I thought they would do me a favour or be useful to me during my career. A network takes time to develop. Part comes through the passage of time, part from the way you treat others and part from reciprocity. But it all begins at home.
If the people within your organisation feel they are part of a community that has their interests at heart, they will develop great loyalty. And it often starts with what seem like small issues. When we were planning our Carrington training ground in the late 1990s, the architects and the chairman wanted to have two separate dining rooms–one for the players and one for the staff. It was a hangover from our old training ground, The Cliff, where the only people allowed in the dining room were the players and the medical staff. But I disagreed. I wanted everybody together. I wanted the younger players to be able to mingle and eat lunch with the older players and the staff too, including people like the laundry team and groundsmen. It’s great for a young lad to be able to talk to Ryan Giggs, and it was good for all the young players to see and mingle with the first team. It gave them role models and something to aspire to.
Sometimes if I saw a young player, a lad in the academy, eating by himself, I would go and sit beside him. You have to make e
veryone feel at home. That doesn’t mean you’re going to be soft on them–but you want them to feel that they belong. I’d been influenced by what I had learned from Marks & Spencer, which, decades ago in harder times, had given their staff free lunches because so many of them were skipping lunch so they could save every penny to help their families. It probably seems a strange thing for a manager to be getting involved in–the layout of a canteen at a new training ground–but when I think about the tone it set within the club and the way it encouraged the staff and players to interact, I can’t overstate the importance of this tiny change.
There were, of course, much more high-profile examples of networks in action. The most glittering example must have been the way we uncovered Cristiano Ronaldo. Carlos Queiroz, who had been born in Mozambique, then a Portuguese colony, was my assistant manager for a total of five years. He had encouraged me to strike up a relationship with Sporting Lisbon, because of their ability to develop young players. We liked Carlos, and it seemed like a smart idea, so we started to exchange coaches so they could experience different settings. In 2001 we sent Jim Ryan, who spent 21 years on the coaching staff at United, to Lisbon, and he spotted a 16-year-old striker playing for Sporting’s youth team by the name of Cristiano Ronaldo.
Part of the deal with Sporting Lisbon was that we would help open their new stadium with an exhibition match in August 2003, and so we flew directly to Portugal at the end of a summer tour of the United States. The day before the stadium opened, Jorge Mendes, Ronaldo’s agent, had told me that both Real Madrid and Arsenal were also in pursuit of his client. It was a brilliantly timed little aside, because the next day Ronaldo played against us and was unbelievable. At half-time I sent Albert Morgan, our kit man, to fetch Peter Kenyon, who was then the club CEO, and told him we were going nowhere until we had that boy signed. We huddled with Cristiano, Jorge Mendes, and the president of Sporting Lisbon, and agreed on a price: £12.24 million. We arranged for a charter plane the following day to fly Ronaldo and his mother and sister, Jorge and Ronaldo’s lawyer, to Manchester. So, thanks to the network created by Carlos Queiroz, we got six years of Ronaldo before he fulfilled his lifelong dream to play for Real Madrid, who paid United £80 million for the best player in the world.
Leading: Learning from Life and My Years at Manchester United Page 12
